


Given Up

by MeteoraAngel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Songfic, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles has survivors guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, but also not sorry, emotion hurt no comfort, the author is sorry, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeteoraAngel/pseuds/MeteoraAngel
Summary: Stiles felt like he was suffocating, the darkness both in his head and around him was too much. Frantically he flailed to the side of the bed, hand finding the switch to his bedside lamp and clicking it on as fast as he could.The sudden light blinded him, burning his eyes and making him blink rapidly to try and make them adjust. The light helped. The voice in the back of his head sounded a little quieter. But only a little.It whispered that no one cared. That he was the reason people he cared about died. He was always the reason. And that nothing mattered. It didn't matter. He didn't matter.Stiles grabbed his hair in fists, screamed into darkness of the empty house. His dad was working tonight. He was alone, and that just gave the voice all the more fuel to goad him further.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the lyrics from Given Up by Linkin Park and by my having just a horrible day and forcing myself to write to cope.
> 
> !!!DISCLAIMER!!!  
> THIS IS NOT PART OF THE SOURWOLF AND MISCHIEF SERIES!

Stiles woke in a colds sweat, screaming into the dark at something that wasn't even really there. After a few minutes that felt like they had stretched on for hours, he settled down, realized he was awake now and that he was very much alone.  

Anxiety and fear made his chest tight, like he was being constricted by an enormous snake. It squeezed harder, restricting his ability to breathe properly. To get enough oxygen to even think straight. Everything had been alright when he had gone to sleep that night. The voice in the back of his head had been quiet enough. He should have know that meant nothing these days. 

There was no escaping his own head, especially when that's the only place you can go when sleep takes you. 

He had tried taking sleeping pills the first few weeks, different ones had different effects, and none of them were good. Some trapt him in the dreams longer, turning them into full blown night terrors. Others just made them more bizarre and abstract before inevitably turning sour. And they all made him groggy and sluggish the next day. 

Even adderall wasn't a help anymore, and that really scared him. He thought if he could focus and stay awake as long as he possibly could that he would be fine. If he hyper-focused on something good like a book or movie before bed maybe he could somehow trick his brain into not having those dreams that night. 

It didn't work though. None of it did. When it all was said and done his mind would end up back in that dark place deep inside that screamed at him in his own voice as well as the voices of the people he had lost. 

Stiles was tired. He was tired and he just wanted to know what the fuck was wrong with him and why he couldn't get past this. More than that he was starting to want to just give up. He wanted it over more than he wanted answers. 

If your mind is your own worst enemy there is no escape, not really, only distractions at best. 

And the worst part was that his friends couldn't help. Nothing they said to him made the voice in the back of his mind shut up. Hell it didn't even quiet it down or give it pause in its persistent efforts to goad and slag him down. Grated Stiles didn't actually let on how bad things were. He gave hints, made self deprecating jokes in the hopes someone would catch on to what was too hard to say in truth. 

The longer he sat in the dark the harder it became to breathe. Glancing over he saw that it was close to 4am and he knew there was no going back to sleep. No way he would be able to fully function at school today, adderall or not. And he knew there would be no help. Sure, Lydia would share her notes, Scott would do homework with him but that could only help so much. The day would be wasted. 

Stiles felt like he was suffocating, the darkness both in his head and around him was too much. Frantically he flailed to the side of the bed, hand finding the switch to his bedside lamp and clicking it on as fast as he could. 

The sudden light blinded him, burning his eyes and making him blink rapidly to try and make them adjust. The light helped. The voice in the back of his head sounded a little quieter. But only a little. 

It whispered that no one cared. That he was the reason people he cared about died. He was always the reason. And that nothing mattered. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. 

Stiles grabbed his hair in fists, screamed into darkness of the empty house. His dad was working tonight. He was alone, and that just gave the voice all the more fuel to goad him further. 

Tears started to roll down his cheeks and he tried to focus on slowing his breathing from the shallow, rapid gasps for air to something more manageable. 

Without realizing it Stiles had clenched his hands into fists again, grip tightening so hard his nails started to bite into the skin. He couldn't feel it at first, too focused on the way his body screamed with panic and faught his attempts to break out of the attack. 

It was when one nail, bitten to a sharp edge by Stiles himself, sliced into his palm that he realized what he was doing. And honestly he didn't care. The small spark of pain that shot through him had made one of the invisible coils around his chest loosen, and he cried harder at the modicum of relief it gave. 

Something in him broke the longer he clenched his fists. And while he could barley breathe still, he took a deep breath and forced himself up and out of bed. Staggering slightly, he righted himself and made his way out of his bedroom and into the dark hallway.  

There was a small light down the hall, bleeding out through the open bathroom doorway. A night light that had been there since he was a child, no longer needed but kept regardless for its usefulness. Stiles followed the glow of it until he entered the tiny room where he turned on the overhead light. 

Again the brightness blinded him, like he wasn't meant to be in such a place. He ignored the thought and finally unclenched his fists, staring at the few small cuts his nails had created in his palms. Three were crescent shaped from nails he'd not bitten since they were last cut. And 4 jagid, short lines where bits of broken nail had dug in from the fingers that had been chewed in his anxious state during the previous day at school. 

The marks were still bleeding, though only lightly. Not deep enough to do much more than ooze a bit. His nails were bloody from being held in the cuts they had created, and while Stiles knew he should clean up and try not to do such a thing again he found himself opening the medicine cabinet and reaching for the box of razor blades rather than the box of bandages. 

Stiles fumbled trying to open the little cardboard box. It belonged to his dad, who preferred to use an old fashion razor to shave, where as Stiles was a fan of the newer style ones with multiple blades that he could throw out without the risk of slicing himself to bits trying to remove them the handle. 

It took three tries and almost dropping the whole box, but finally Stiles got the folded cardboard open. He shook a blade out into his open hand and before he really knew what he was doing he had slid down onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor, his back against the door when he was fully seated. 

Holding the blade between slightly shaky fingers Stiles turned it over carefully, he hadn't actually thought about what he was doing up until this point. He just wanted everything to stop. He wanted to give it all up. The pain, the panic attacks, the nightmares, and the venomous voice in the back of his mind that were the cause of it all.  

It was getting hard to breathe again, the small amount of relief he had found in letting his nails dig into his skin was going fast. He was suffocating and he just wanted the misery to stop. 

So he did the only thing he could think to do in his current state. He held out his left arm, brought the razor to a spot he knew he could easily hide, and pressed down. Didn't press hard, just enough that the edge of the blade created pressure on the skin. 

A deep breath and a beat later he pressed down harder and began to drag the blade across his skin slowly. It stung. God it stung more than his nails had. But the pain was like an electric shock to his system. A shock that made the invisible snake constricting him lose it's hold and slip away. 

He took the blade away, staring in horror as blood ran down his arm to drip slowly to the floor. And then he let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. He could breathe again. He inhaled, slow and deep. Exhaled just as slow.  

Stiles looked from his arm to the razorblade still held between his fingers. He wasn’t shaking anymore, and while that should probably scare him it didn't. He felt okay. Kind of numb. But okay. 

That's when he realized the voice in the back of his mind was quite, truly quiet for the first time in weeks. 

Looking back to his arm Stiles realized he needed to get cleaned up soon. He wasn't bleeding too badly, but the grout between the tiles would totally stain if he left the blood on the floor and if he didn't shower and get this covered that Scott would undoubtedly smell the blood on him and ask questions that Stiles was just not comfortable answering. 'Oh, that? Yeah, I was having a major PTSD nightmare induced panic attack and resorted to self mutilations to cope. Nothing to worry about.' He heard himself say in a sarcastic tone in his head. 

So that's what he did. He cleaned and bandaged his arm, cleaned the floor, and showered before eventually returning to his room where he decided to try and finish the homework he had been unable to complete the night before. 

And if that razor had been washed and tucked away in his nightstand that was nobody's business but his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my work? Swing by [My Tumblr](https://meteoraangel.tumblr.com/) with a request/prompt?  
> Wanna know what I'm writing next? Check out my [Writing Queue](https://meteora-writes.tumblr.com/Queue)


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